


Snug

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John learns a few more tricks for dealing with Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snug

John woke up, trapped.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, his heart faltering before jolting into overdrive, as if to compensate for the momentary stutter. His eyes flew open as he felt a familiar flash of adrenaline, shocking his nerves, squeezing his lungs.  His mind leapt, trying to analyze the situation: where was he, who had him, what was pinning him, did it have any weak points, what could he hear, smell, see. His fingers twitched for his gun, but he didn’t have it, which made sense – not something he’d be allowed to keep if he were trapped, pinned, held captive.

Then reality reasserted itself – in a mere few seconds that seemed to have stretched an entire year – and he realized he was at home.

In bed.

With Sherlock.

Who had wrapped himself around John in his sleep.

He drew in a deep breath, very slowly, counting ten seconds on the inhale, holding it as long as he could before letting it go even more slowly, trying to relax. The adrenaline wasn’t helping, coursing through his body, keeping him tense, prepared, aware.

Sherlock shifted slightly and murmured something that sounded French, or perhaps it was just incoherent – John really couldn’t tell.

But he didn’t let go.

John had rolled onto his right side at some point, and Sherlock had done the same, fitting himself neatly over John without waking the doctor. He had one arm wrapped snugly around John’s waist, fingers bent loosely so they barely touched John’s skin, his left leg tucked over John’s left hip and knee, so the doctor’s legs were neatly pinned. And his head resting on the top of John’s, since the height difference was enough that he could do this comfortably.

John lay very still.

_All right_ , he told himself. _All right._

This was the first time he’d woken up to this – although, admittedly, Sherlock was usually up before him.  He slept more now, but still not as much as John.

And they’d only been sharing a bedroom for eight days now – not to mention that Sherlock wasn’t big on actually sleeping when they were in there together.

Nor was John for that matter.

This would be almost domestic and normal if not for the fact that John was a former army surgeon with highly trained combat reactions who was being quite expertly kept in place by a six-foot-two mad genius and that they’d become so comfortable sleeping together so quickly that the detective could do this sort of thing without waking either of them.

John drew another deep, slow breath and exhaled it. He lay in the darkness, concentrating on steadying his heart rate and on the sensation of Sherlock wrapped around him.

After the shock had dissipated somewhat, he realized that it was actually quite comfortable and enjoyable. Warm.  Safe. There were times when the height difference annoyed him because frankly, it would be nice to be close enough to the same height to just turn and kiss the damn man when they were standing side-by-side instead of having to force Sherlock to bend down. Not that Sherlock seemed inconvenienced by this. In fact, he seemed to seek out any possible opportunities to do so.

John’s lips twitched into a smile as he relaxed more, moving his left hand to cover Sherlock’s, lacing their fingers together. He caressed his partner’s fingers lazily, enjoying the sensation. John loved Sherlock’s long fingers. Not least for their surprising dexterity. _That_ had been more than little delightful to learn.

He thought he could remember the noise he’d made when he’d found that out.

_Definitely_ more than just a little delightful.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock gave a content sigh in his sleep and shifted somewhat but didn’t awaken.

John raised Sherlock’s hand gently and kissed his palm before returning it to its position resting on his stomach. He closed his eyes, the smile still playing on his lips. He was tempted to wake Sherlock up, but he himself did have to work the following day and there were only so many excuses for delays his fellow doctors and the other staff would swallow before they started becoming suspicious.

If he woke Sherlock up now, the detective would never let him go back to sleep. If Sherlock managed to stay asleep until John actually had to get up, it was conceivable that he would let John leave without delaying him, because John had taken to getting up somewhat earlier to fit in a good shag in the morning, usually in the shower.

John hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed that until he’d started enjoying it with Sherlock, who could lift and pin him easily against the tiles that lined the wall inside the tub. The combined sensations of the cold tiles and the hot water, along with the sensation of Sherlock himself was overwhelmingly arousing.

_All right, not something to think about when you have to go back to sleep_ , he told himself.

He snuggled down in the little pocket of warmth Sherlock had created for both of them and waited for sleep.

And waited.

And waited.

John lay in the darkness and listened to Sherlock’s breathing, feeling his partner’s heartbeat faintly against his back, trying not to grow increasingly agitated as the time slipped past. He had to fight the urge to check the clock, but it was kept on Sherlock’s side of the bed and he was prevented from doing so anyway by Sherlock’s embrace.

Minutes crept past.

And now he was both thirsty and had to use the bathroom.

John snorted to himself.

_What are you, five?_ he thought and ignored both sensations, closing his eyes more tightly, snuggling down more firmly.

But they wouldn’t abate.

_Bloody hell_ , John thought, opening his eyes again, catching his lower lip between his teeth.

He was stuck.

What to do? Wake Sherlock and risk not being able to get back to sleep? Or try to ignore needing to get up and risk not being able to get to sleep?

The outcome was pretty much the same.

Carefully, John tested what would happen if he tried to move. He slid forward a bit, trying gingerly to dislodge his legs and to duck his head from under Sherlock’s chin, but this resulted only in Sherlock tightening his hold with his arm and leg and a murmured “Nmhmm,” which John assumed could be a “no”.

_Okay_ , he thought with a pensive frown. Sherlock relaxed again when John stopped moving.

Experimentally, John tried to shift Sherlock’s arm off from around his waist.

Sherlock clamped down hard, stiffening his muscles, making it difficult for John to manoeuvre him.

Not that, either.

He tried rolling onto his back, which would necessitate rolling right into Sherlock, his left shoulder nudging against his partner’s chest, but Sherlock moved his left hand to John’s waist and held him fast. His arm snaked back to its original position when John gave up again.

Amazing how Sherlock’s stubbornness could win out when the man was semi-conscious and John was fully awake.

Seemed a bit unfair, really.

He decided there was nothing for it.  He was going to have to wake Sherlock up, as much as he regretted this – because it meant breaking the embrace, which he was enjoying in no small part because it was so rare that Sherlock was so still and peaceful.

And it likely meant no more sleep for him. John wasn’t entirely unhappy about this – in fact, he was very much interested in the possibilities of what no sleep would mean immediately, but less so what it would mean for the rest of the day.

He gave himself another moment to enjoy the warmth and the touch and the calm, then exhaled a small, regretful sigh and turned his head very slightly.

“Sherlock, I need to get up,” he whispered.

The change was instantaneous.

John was expecting Sherlock to blink himself awake and mutter unhappily and grouch a bit before letting John go, then insist on not sleeping another wink when John came back. He waited for Sherlock’s eyes to flutter open, to catch the grey-eyed gaze in the darkness, to hear the familiar huff that Sherlock expelled when asked to do something he didn’t want to but knew he had to, as if he always had to register his protest so it would be known to the universe.

Instead, Sherlock released him, leg and arm at the same time, and rolled away, onto his back then onto his left side, dragging the duvet with him.

John lay still for a moment in the twin colds created by Sherlock’s sudden lack of body heat and the loss of the duvet. He managed to twist onto his back enough to see his partner, who had, in his sleep, tugged the blankets up to his ears, curled up, nestled his head into his pillow, and stilled again.

Throughout it all, he was certain Sherlock hadn’t woken up.

Carefully, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed then stood, padding softly around the bed, going by memory in the darkness. He stopped by Sherlock’s side of the bed, peering at his partner as best he could in the faint green light from the alarm clock.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed and his features were tranquil in a way that indicated he was not actually awake.

Amazing.

John just watched him for a moment longer, then shook his head, a grin playing on his lips. He went to use the loo and downed a glass of water while he was in there, doing all of this with the lights off, from months of practiced memory living in the flat.

He returned to the bedroom – _their_ bedroom, he reminded himself with a smile and a pleasantly possessive feeling, because who else got to see Sherlock like this? He thought of everyone he knew who also knew the detective and realized that none of them had any inkling what they were missing. They saw the surface only, what Sherlock wanted them to see.

It was a bit sad, he thought. But given the way people reacted to the detective, perhaps not so surprising.

John shook away those slightly maudlin thoughts and climbed back onto his side of the bed.

Sherlock was still being a blanket hog and seemed to have no semi-conscious intentions of stopping.

Well, he could try again.

“Sherlock, I need my share of blankets back,” John whispered.

Nothing.

John leaned over closer to his partner.

“Sherlock? Blankets.”

Again nothing. Well, not quite – Sherlock nuzzled his face further down into the pillow and sighed but didn’t stir past that.

_Damn_ , John thought.

Very carefully, he fisted a hand around the duvet and gave an experimental tug.

Sherlock curled further in on himself, drawing the duvet over his body.

_Brilliant_ , John thought. He couldn’t sleep without the blankets; it was November and already too cold for that sort of thing, even with the additional body heat of another person in the bed with him.

Another person who was monopolizing the duvet for himself.

John essayed another light tug.

Sherlock held firm.

_Was_ he awake? John wouldn’t put that kind of obstinacy past his partner, but when he searched Sherlock’s face – what he could see of it anyway – he saw no telltale signs of a smirk or smile, no crinkling around the eyes, only the smooth mask made by peaceful sleep.

_Well I still need to sleep, too!_ John thought, shaking his head.

And now he was feeling tired, but cold, and desperately just wanted to curl up under the duvet against Sherlock and drift back to sleep.

He reached out, moving his hand up, and ran his fingertips lightly along the side of Sherlock’s neck. Instinctively, Sherlock turned his face toward the contact, an expression of pleasure and mild desire shifting across his features, his lips moving with some soundless word.

And he relaxed enough for John to tug the duvet toward him a bit.

Not quite enough, though.

John shifted so he was sitting up fully and repeated the caress with his left hand, locking his right fist into the duvet and pulling gently when the touch made Sherlock relax again. He let his fingertips dance very lightly over Sherlock’s lips and felt them move in response.

He freed up more of the duvet.

John trailed his finger down Sherlock’s left arm, across his elbow from the bony bit on the back to the smooth skin on the inside, down his inner forearm as much as was possible. Sherlock relaxed his arm and John worked more of the duvet free. He let his fingers trace over the back of Sherlock’s hand, each of them then sketching lightly over Sherlock’s own fingers.

Bit by bit, he managed to get Sherlock to relax enough to free up his half of the duvet and cover himself again. It was astonishing to watch, to feel it happening. John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s face the whole time, noting each small shift in expression that he could see, knowing it would be so much more vivid if it weren’t so dark and his vision was not as restricted.

Finally, after about ten minutes, he’d liberated his portion of the blankets and settled down on his back under it. Sherlock was now lying half on his back as well, his head toward John at what must surely be an uncomfortable angle, but given what Sherlock would put his body through on a regular basis, he probably wouldn’t notice it.

John sighed, warm and cosy again, and closed his eyes. In the moments before he fell asleep, he felt Sherlock roll over and wrap himself around John, nuzzling the doctor’s neck with his nose, making a tired flash of desire wash through him. Without thinking or intending to, John wrapped himself around Sherlock in response, snuggling up to his partner so that there was as little space between their bodies as possible, and drifted back to sleep.

 


End file.
